Intellect
by Obsessive Compulsive Fangirl
Summary: Set After 'The Great Game'. Sherlock and John have hit a dry spell of cases since that eventful night at the pool with Jim Moriarty. So when Sherlock picks up a homeless girl and brings her home to 221b Baker Street to help, what will happen? Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK AND HIS CHARACTERS. The only thing I own is the plotline and Amy.

BBC1 TV show 'Sherlock' Fan Fiction.

Please, if you have no idea about this programme, or have never watched it- Do. Seriously. If you're British, or if you're not British, then look it up somewhere online as it's not on iPlayer anymore.

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ONE.

Pit-Pat, Pit-Pat, Pit-Pat.

The sound of rain bounced off the standard, black London taxi, and a rather bored Sherlock Holmes sat expressionless, looking out of the window.

His black hair was matted to his head, damp from the short walk to the taxi; his piercing blue eyes bore through the window at the miserable atmosphere outside- miserable people, miserable weather, miserable everything; his damp, black coat and blue scarf chaffed his skin as he fidgeted restlessly.

His phone beeped- a message. He clicked 'open' and read.

Sherlock- out of milk. Pick some up on the way home.

JW

Sherlock sighed. John Watson, his flatmate, was giving his lame attempt of revenge. Sherlock, however, wasn't stupid enough to get in a row with a chip-and-pin machine. He leaned forward in his seat. "Stop here," he told the driver just as they approached a corner shop. "Wait while I buy milk."

He opened the door quickly, rushing through the shop doors, passing a few irrelevant people.

The milk was at the back of the store, near most of the dairy products, like most shops. He picked up a two-litre carton of Full Cream milk and headed towards the counter at the entrance of the shop. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the cigarettes behind the cashier's head. "No," he told himself mentally. "Remember: you quit. Nicotine patches are your addiction now. Less harmful."

'Just the milk, thanks.' Sherlock mumbled, setting a shiny two pound coin on the countertop. After receiving his eighty-nine pence change, he walked briskly out of the shop and into someone.

Sherlock looked down. A small brunette girl, about his age, with astonishingly strange eyes and an average beauty of a face was looking up tearfully and fearfully at him.

'S-sorry!' the woman stammered.

From what Sherlock could tell on first real glance was: Hair's a mess, face is covered in muck, clothes considerably dirty- the girl hasn't been home in days.

Slight bruises on her left cheek, lower right side forehead, both wrists- maybe she's clumsy, maybe she's abused; probably the latter.

Skinny, hasn't eaten for days; on top of that she's bulimic given the state of her left hand and first two digits, not counting the thumb.

A small rucksack on her back suggests that she's run away from home given the previous information.

'No, it was my fault entirely. Sorry.' Sherlock responded.

The woman went to leave, but he caught her arm. 'Where are you going?'

'I- I...' she stuttered, not sure how to answer. His voice echoed in her head.

'You haven't slept well in three days. You're hungry.'

'H-how...?'

'The Science of Deduction.'

The girl nodded, not as if she understood what he was saying, but just as if she was acknowledging it.

Sherlock, seeing this, sighed and decided to tell her at a later time, as the rain was pelting down, soaking them both.

'Excuse me, but we're getting wet, would you mind climbing into the cab. I'll take you home to my flat, get you something to eat, make sure you don't throw it up again- it's an unhealthy obsession. You can sleep there and then I'll show you the door in the morning.'

The female stood dumbstruck. She didn't know if she could trust him, but if she was abducted, it would be better than sleeping under tunnels, beside rivers... She nodded meekly, clambering into the taxi cab quietly.

They sat quietly. Sherlock staring out of the window again, his left hand looped through his plastic shopping bag, the girl resting her forehead on the seat in front. Finally, the silence got too much for him, 'Name.' he stated rather than asked.

'S-sorry, what?' the girl asked quietly, lifting her head from the seat.

'Name. What's your name?'

'Amy. Amy Renolds,'

'Sherlock Holmes,'

'It's nice to meet you.'

Sherlock nodded in response.

They sat in silence for a few more moments.

'So who I he?' he asked finally, gesturing to the bruises. Amy looked at him, confused, her deep blue-green eyes shining dully- as if they had the potential to shine like the ocean, but, after possibly years of abuse, were dulled down to mere echoes of their former. 'The person who caused them,' he pointed at the bruises again.

'He- He is- was my boyfriend. I was too stupid, kept doing the wrong things. They've actually healed up pretty well now. They've had a break from- from...' she'd had it. Broke down in tears. She didn't even care that it was in front of someone she didn't know.

Sherlock reached over and put his hand on Amy's shoulder, his own effort at comforting.

She mistook this and leaned into his touch, resting her head on his shoulder. Sherlock sat awkwardly and uncomfortably as Amy continued to sob on his shoulder. She had just stopped when they arrived at 221b Baker Street.

Sherlock opened the door for them and they both stepped inside, dripping all over the floor.

Mrs Hudson, the kind landlady fussed and hurried them up the stairs to Sherlock's flat.

'John's up there,' she said, 'Sarah's with him,'

'Oh, God.' Sherlock cursed.

Mrs Hudson handed Amy a towel, and she dried her hair slowly. It was already becoming less damp, settling into unruly curls that sat at askew angles.

The door opened just as Sherlock reached for the handle. A tall brown haired girl stood uttering goodbye to a man of average height before brushing past the two people at the threshold.

'Hey, Sherlock,' the man greeted.

'John,' Sherlock greeted back.

Amy stood in the hall as her host walked through the entrance of his home. She stood, looking at the floor of the inside of the flat.

Sherlock watched her curiously. 'Aren't you coming in?'

'Crux nusquam tecto tuo limine,' Amy uttered quietly.

'That sounded like Latin. Translate,' Sherlock stated.

'Never let the homeless cross your threshold. My father used to say that. Said my mother was a homeless squatter. She refused to leave his home. That's how they met.' Realising she'd said too much Amy looked away, embarrassed.

They all stood awkwardly until John insisted she move into the warmth of their flat.

'Come in, come in. You can have a shower first, you look like you could use the heat. Wait here while I get you some towels,'

'John, she'll need something to sleep in,'

'I'll get you some pyjamas.'

Amy nodded, thankful, in response. John returned shortly after with some old clothes, including baggy tracksuit bottoms, a loose hanging t-shirt, a pair of boxers, and a navy blue thing that looked like a blanket. He showed her to the bathroom and turned the shower on for her, quickly leaving immediately. She locked the door behind him, shedding her clothes and stepping into the warm haven of the shower.

Sherlock was in the living room, typing away on his laptop when John stopped dead in front of him. Without looking up from the screen, Sherlock asked 'What?'

'You brought home a complete stranger. Why?'

'She had nowhere else to go. She'd have died within a few more days without food and proper sleep,'

'You seem to survive well enough without it,' John retorted.

'But I do eat. Only when my body needs to, and in case you haven't noticed, I've been sleeping a lot since we've hit this dry spell of work,' Sherlock muttered.

'I swear. Sometimes you're so nocturnal and strange it feels like I'm sharing a flat with a vampire.' John said under his breath, and walked off.

The water stopped, and ten minutes after Amy submerged from the bathroom. She bumped into John on the way to the living room.

'I hope you don't mind, but I used the green shower gel and the shampoo in the blue and black bottle. I didn't really have time to pack the necessities such as soap and whatnot,' she murmured to him.

'Not at all. Just, don't tell Sherlock you used his things, even though he'll probably find out anyway.' John replied, smiling carefully.

Amy walked in, stepping around the books and pages on the floor. She looked at the fireplace mantel. There sat books, pages with scribbles of sentences, a candle or two, and even a skull. 'Alas poor Yorick.' she whispered.

Sitting down on a chair opposite the sofa Sherlock was currently occupying, she proceeded to watch him. Her gaze was somewhat off putting for him. He looked up at her, noticing her wearing his navy blue dressing gown and furrowing his brows in a frown.

'That's mine,' he stated.

'Oh, sorry, I'll put it bac-'

'Keep it on. I was just telling you. My shampoo seems to make your hair less coarse,' he observed, his deep voice reverberating through the room, sending shivers down Amy's spine.

'Um, thank you?'

Sherlock nodded and returned to his work. Amy curled up in a ball and started to drift into sleep when his voice woke her up again.

'You can sleep in my room,'

'But, where will you sleep?'

'Where I normally sleep. On this sofa. That door there,' he told her, pointing to the door of his bedroom.

'Th-thank you.' Amy stuttered uncertainly in gratitude.

She slept well that night.

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What did you think?


	2. Chapter 2

Intellect.

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TWO.

It was late morning/early afternoon when Amy woke up. She groggily opened her eyes with a groan and sussed out her surroundings.

As her memory came back to her, she jumped. Not because of where she was, but because of a certain tall, pale male standing over her, his black curls standing out from his vampiric complexion and his ice blue eyes piercing, flooding her soul.

Amy let out a squeak.

'Sherlock!' she screamed.

'Amy,' he replied in a very bored tone.

'How long have you been standing there!'

'Since ten o'clock,'

'And what time is it now?'

'One o'clock.'

"Sweet Jesus!" Amy thought to herself. "I've slept fifteen hours!"

'Why were you watching me?' she asked out loud. Her stomach growled.

'Bored. Do you normally ask this many questions?' he quirked in response. 'John, make food!' he called out to his friend.

Amy swore she heard John shout "Mrs Hudson, can you make Amy some breakfast?" and get a response along the lines of "Not your housekeeper!"

'Not normally, but it's not everyday you wake up to a man towering above you. Chop off a bit of your legs will you?'

Sherlock cocked his head to the left, curious and confused. 'What would be the point in that?'

Amy smirked, 'Would make you shorter.'

Sherlock's sandy haired flatmate, John, arrived and carried with him a tray with a bowl of breakfast cereal and a hot cup of tea balanced carefully on top.

'Sherlock?' John asked confusedly. 'What are you doing in here?'

'Well, it is my bedroom. I could just as simply turn the question around and direct it at you,'

'Yeah, alright,' John set the tray on Amy's lap. 'There you go, eat up. If you need anything, just shout.' he said, smiling briefly at her before leaving the room.

'Thank-you!' Amy called after him. 'So, Sherlock, what is it you do for a living? Certainly not cleaning, anyway,' she gestured to the mess of the room, and basically the whole flat.

'Cleaning is boring and a futile act on my part. I'm not a tidy person. As for my job, I'm the world's one and only "Consulting Detective",' he answered, watching Amy shovel her food.

When she had an empty mouth, she asked another question, 'What's a "Consulting Detective"?'

'The police consult me when they can't figure out who the criminal is. When they have no leads or suspects. Which used to be quite often, considering they'd hired idiots like Anderson and Donovan,'

'And they are who?'

'Doesn't matter, eat up.'

Amy sat eating her cereal and drinking her tea until they were finished. Sherlock sat watching her, out if curiosity, like she was one of his experiments.

'What do you do for a living?' he asked when she'd finish.

'I run a florists. In fact,' she said, 'I should probably get going to work. I haven't been in three days and, now that I look somewhat better, I'm presentable enough to go and supervise my employees.'

Sherlock stood up, as he had taken a seat on the edge of his bed, and headed for the door, acknowledging that that was his time to leave. 'I'll arrange a cab.'

Amy nodded an "Okay." and climbed out of bed. She went to grab her bag to change, only- it wasn't there.

'Sherlock!'

As soon as his name escaped from her lips, Sherlock's hand opened the door and threw her bag into the room. Amy caught it quickly and got changed.

She stormed out of the door and to the living room, where Sherlock Holmes was hunkered down on his knees observing a bunch of rotten grapes from under a plastic chinese container.

'You went through my bag,' Amy stated solidly.

'Well done, although it's not a very hard fact to deduce,' Sherlock replied deeply, nonchalantly, not looking up from his experiment, or his notes.

Amy scoffed, 'Is it not an invasion of my privacy for you to be going through my personal things?'

'Well, yes. But you left it lying out here. If it were of that much concern about myself or John sifting through your personal objects, you would have brought it in to the bedroom with you last night,'

'Would it have stopped you anyway?'

'Not a chance,' The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile, but was restraining it. 'Anyway, isn't it time you left? For work I mean. I bid you a good life. Hope you get out of that terrible circumstance with your boyfriend. Leave him if necessary.'

Amy stood with her mouth agape. She never in her life had ever heard someone speak so arrogantly, so rudely.

'Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes.' she muttered. Obviously he heard her, as he sent an acknowledging nod in her direction.

Leaving the flat, Amy thought to herself. Why is he so annoying? Incredibly ignorant? Pompous? How is it he can see through everything and everyone in only a matter of seconds? Is he even human? Most likely. She didn't believe in the extraterrestrial things invading Earth. Only in movies and Television programmes.

The cab ride was very uneventful to her small florist just off Waterloo Road. It was when the taxi finally stopped had Amy realised she had no money.

She started to explain to the driver, to make excuses, but she was interrupted by him. 'No need to worry, young lady. Mr Holmes has already paid for the fare.'

-beep-

:You're welcome.

SH

The message had come through to her phone immediately after the driver had spoken. 'Er, okay then. Thank you for the lift.' she muttered through the window of the cab.

: Thank-you.

-Amy.

She sent a reply soon after entering her shop.

In 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes sat in an armchair staring at his older brother, Mycroft, with cold eyes.

Violin in hand, he raised it to his chin, lifted the bow to the strings and proceeded in pulling it across them numerous times. The act made a harmonious sound in the head of Sherlock, but to Mycroft, it was the sound of utter chaos.

He cringed at the sound, knowing his younger sibling was only doing it to drive him away. 'It's not going to work, Sherlock. I'm here because the matter of a missing person has arisen, and you were seen with her,'

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and cocked his head to the left. 'Amy? Amy Renolds? I hardly think she's of Governmental importance,'

'Oh she's not, I was just wondering if the rumours where true. You- helping a nice young lady. I heard you brought her back here. What ever would Mummy say?'

'Mummy would approve. I didn't bring her back here like that, she hadn't eaten or slept for days, I was doing her a favour. Helping her get back on her feet. Your sources are unreliable,' Sherlock grumbled.

'My sources are perfectly reliable, thank-you, baby brother,'

They sat in silence, both stating each other out, another sibling competition.

'How's the diet going, Mycroft?' Sherlock asked, noticing his brother had put on a few pounds after the last time he'd seen him.

'Oh, it's splendid. Really, really great.' Mycroft lied.

He'd done it many a time in their lives, and each time after it got a little easier.

Though, while Mycroft was smarter, Sherlock was quite possibly the smartest person in the world that very moment. He knew his brother was obviously lying; his hands always fidgeted.

Sherlock pulled the bow across the violin strings once more, relishing in the grimace that passed his brother's face.

'Stop that infernal racket, Sherlock,' Mycroft exclaimed, jumping from his seat, hands over his ears.

'"Infernal Racket?" I think you'll find I'm rather good at the violin.' Sherlock retorted.

And with that, Mycroft Holmes strutted out of the room, scoffing at his brother.

Sherlock smirked to himself.

The hours passed and he became more bored and more tired. He slumped in the chair and slept.

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You know the drill!


	3. Chapter 3

Intellect.

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THREE.

It wasn't until the next morning when Sherlock had woken. He gained his surroundings and recollected his memories.

A commotion of noise through the floorboards told him someone was moving boxes downstairs. The muffled voice of an older female told him Mrs Hudson was helping out.

Out of curiosity, and the need to know more than anything, made Sherlock jump from his seat to the stairs- peeking over them.

A tall female; bright ginger hair; vivid green eyes. She was moving in to 221a.

Sherlock bounded softly down the stairs, not making a sound, and grabbed a box. Then he silently crept up the stairs again and into his flat.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor he opened the box. It was full of photo frames and certificates. He picked up a frame and studied it.

Older woman with the same eyes and hair colour- definitely her mother. Man standing beside her- too old to be her brother- must be her father.

Sherlock sifted through the other photos; father, aunt, mother, father, grandfather, mother, mother and father, family photo- no noted siblings yet -dog, dog, baby- her cousin. As far as Sherlock could tell, her parents were spilt; She switched between homes as a child, so a shared custody had been agreed by the mother and father; she cares gratefully about her family given the way their photos are cared for.

Next he was on to the certificates. A few trivial ones- primary one: tied her own tie, her own shoe laces etc. Then onto more educational certificates- top of her class in biology, chemistry, health and social studies. She's obviously smart, and by the rest of the certificates around he guessed that she's a nurse. Upon finding her university graduate certificate, he cheered silently in his head that he had guessed correctly. The name on every certificate was 'Eleanor Rigby'.

Finding all he could from that particular box, he taped it up again and bounded down the stairs, again, setting it in with the rest of her things.

Just as he turned to leave, Eleanor came to the hallway.

'Hello there!' came her warm voice. 'I've just moved in there,'

'Obviously,' Sherlock said dryly.

'Yes, well. Nice to meet you, my name's Eleanor,'

'Yes, I know. Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes,'

Eleanor smiled, 'I know this is awfully daring of me to ask, but could you give me a hand with these boxes?'

'I can't, sorry. I have to pop out- bit of a work case to be working on,' Sherlock lied. He sounded almost domestic. Like a human.

'Oh, well. Okay then. No matter! I'll let you get on your way then!' Eleanor said cheerfully.

Sherlock smiled, still acting, and headed to the front door of the building. He opened it, and revealed the same brown-haired blue-eyed girl he'd saved two days before, hand clenched in a fist in the air, as if she were about to knock.

Amy looked a sight. Her hair clung to her head, wet with the heavy rain that was currently down pouring, and she had numerous new cuts and bruises on her face; busted lip, deep purple bruise on her left eye, heavy bruising on her lower right cheek/upper jaw. She was sobbing quietly as she lowered her hand and tackled Sherlock into a hug.

He stood for a moment, unsure of what to do, not moving, until he realised that wasn't the best thing to do at that time. So he raised his right hand and patted her gently and awkwardly on the back until she released him.

'H-he- I-I,' She tried to tell him what happened, but it was obviously too distressing for her.

Broken down in tears again, a strangely sympathetic Sherlock helped her inside to the warmth of the hallway.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' he asked softly, again almost human.

Amy nodded solemnly.

'Mrs Hudson!'

The kind old landlady walked out from 221a, where she was helping Eleanor move in.

'Yes, Sherlock?' Then she saw Amy. 'Oh, dear. What happened? Come in here, I'm sure young Eleanor wouldn't mind me making a cup of tea for you in her flat.'

Sherlock helped Amy into the living room of 221a, and sat her down in the recliner- the only seat there as of yet. Mrs Hudson walked in with a hot cup of tea and a towel for Amy. She was shocked at Sherlock's new found care.

'I never knew you would be so kind, Sherlock. What are you looking?'

'Nothing, Mrs Hudson! I just want to help her. She's been badly mistreated. Amy here will tell us what happened when she's ready,'

Eleanor strode out of her bedroom at the voices. 'What in God's name is going on here?' Then she saw Amy. 'Good lord!'

'A terrible thing has happened, dear,' Mrs Hudson explained.

'And what's he doing here? I thought he had work to go to?' she asked, gesturing to Sherlock who was crouching down in front of Amy, stating intently at her, studying her.

'I think this is more important than work,' he said.

'Work? You mean you got a case, Sherlock?' Mrs Hudson piped up.

'No,'

'A case? What exactly does he do for a living anyway?' Eleanor asked.

'Oh, dear, he's the worlds or and only consulting detective!' Mrs Hudson answered.

'And what's that?'

'It's not important right now, shut up,' Sherlock told them.

'Is he always this rude?' Eleanor queried.

'Only when he's bored,'

'MRS HUDSON!' Sherlock exploded, making Amy jump. 'Sorry, Amy.'

Mrs Hudson threw her hands up in exasperation, walking out of the room.

'That was uncalled for, Mr Holmes,'

'It's Sherlock,' he corrected.

'Whatever.' she muttered and walked out of the room too.

Sherlock sat and waited for Amy to explain. This took time, and it was nearly twenty minutes before she was ready to talk.

'Tell me how it happened, I'm assuming it was him,' he asked gently, already knowing it was her boyfriend who had done this.

'Um, okay... Well, you know yesterday, when I left for work?' Sherlock nodded at this. 'Well, he burst into my shop demanding to speak to me. I refused, but he made a scene. So I gave in. I went back to our flat with him- what a terrible mistake! He started talking about how sorry his was. I was idiotic, stupid, and forgave him. That's when he changed again. Forced himself on me. And I told him, "I'm not that type of girl", but he wouldn't listen- tried to beat me into submission. But I said no, so he beat me again. Gave me this,' she pointed to her bust lip. 'I managed to get away and come here- the only place he doesn't know about. So, now I'm stranded with nowhere to go,' Amy finished, gaining her breath again.

A ginger head popped out from the kitchen. 'You can stay with me!' Eleanor exclaimed.

Amy stared back, startled. 'Oh, erm, I don't know... I mean, you've just moved in. I don't want to intrude,'

'Oh, no you aren't! Honestly. In fact, I need someone to help pay the rent. Honestly, I wouldn't mind! It would give me someone to converse with and keep my mind sane. So what d'you say?'

Amy thought for a while, 'Oh, alright then. Okay, I'll stay here. But someone'll have to her my things from my boyfriend's flat,'

'I'll do it. Me and John,' Sherlock volunteered.

'Oh, thank-you, Sherlock!' Amy said, practically jumping into his arms once again.

Sherlock, who was kneeling on the floor prior to Amy's attack, was pushed to the floor by her. Out of reflex only, he turned over, so he was atop of her, pinning Amy to the floor by her shoulders, her legs unconsciously wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

'Ooh, he likes to be on top, this boy then!' Eleanor giggled from where she was standing.

'This is a rather compromising position, Sherlock,' Amy muttered.

'Yes, it appears so. Would you mind getting off of me?'

'Sherlock, you're on top of me. You get off,'

'Erm, yes. Quite.' Sherlock stood up quickly, and walked rather abruptly upstairs to his own flat.

Amy's face flushed, and she kept looking at the floor, or anywhere else that wasn't human.

Eleanor cleared her throat and Amy looked up.

'I just want to point out that neither of us know each other's names,'

'Oh, I don't suppose we do,' Amy said, looking to Eleanor from her spot on the dark wooden floor.

She stood up, extending her hand.

'Renolds. Amy Renolds,'

'Well, in that case, the name's Rigby. Eleanor Rigby. Pleasure to meet you, Amy Renolds,' Eleanor replied with an air of importance.

'The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.' Amy said with the same tone.

They giggled in the living room.

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A/N: I dedicate the character of Eleanor Rigby to my Wonderful [cyber]friend, Rhiannon! She's amazing! [follow her on TWITTER: RhiaWelsh and on TUMBLR: butitsthesolarsystem]

Rhiannon chose the name and description of Eleanor herself, and I tried my best to take some of Rhiannon's brilliant personality into Eleanor, and hopefully more of it will come through in the rest of the chapters. It's just a pity that she's little shown in this chapter. But, at least in my experiences as a mediocre (and quite feeble) writer, the words make themselves. I don't plan any of my chapters- they just happen.

Yes, I have a story line set out and, as Rhiannon knows, it's quite extensive, but I don't plan what goes in which chapter, when and where etc.

Anyway, I've babbled too long. It's a once in a while thing on my chapters- I promise!


	4. Chapter 4

Intellect.

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FOUR.

The passing days were rather pleasant for the inhabitants of both flats in 221 Baker Street.

Amy and Eleanor became fast friends, as you would have to do when sharing a flat with someone. Eleanor was funny and Amy was a pleasant cook.

Sherlock was shortly rid of his boredom when he had to collect Amy's belongings from her ex-boyfriend's house. He left him a rather rude note, and simply signed it 'SH'. Sherlock also took pleasure in sifting through her belongings between trips back to 221.

John had been working shifts, but between those he had checked Amy for broken bones and internal injuries. Finding she had neither, he too was happy.

Mrs Hudson, though she presides in neither flat, was happy because of Sherlock's lack of boredom; it meant no new bullet holes in the walls.

But at that present moment, all hell was about to break loose in 221b. Amy had found her voice again from one small comment made by a Mr Sherlock Holmes.

'I do wish you'd tidy up every once in a while Sherlock; Pigsties are cleaner,'

'Yes, well, while you make keep a flat to the hygiene levels of someone who has serious Cleanliness-OCD, I do not. I'm not a very tidy person. Cleaning is mundane and dull,'

'Oh, so I have OCD then do I?'

'A strong form of it, yes,' Sherlock muttered offhandedly.

'Sherlock, I'd quit now if I were you,' John warned, but Amy and Sherlock both ignored him.

Amy scoffed, 'You're one to talk! How you analyse everything like it's the most important piece of information the world will ever see!'

'You never know- it COULD be the most important piece if information the world has ever seen. If it's not- then my mind deletes it,'

'S-sorry, what? Your mind... Deletes unimportant memories?'

'And information yes. My mind is a machine and this,' Sherlock pointed to his head, 'Is my hard-drive. I only keep things in there that are useful. Really useful,'

'...You are a freak! Comparing yourself to a computer! Computers are organised. You are nothing like that!' Amy shouted back with force.

The pair argued for quite a while longer, their voices raising so loudly you could hear them streets away.

Eventually, Mrs Hudson had walked the stairs to find out what was going on.

'TWELVE TIMES IN TWO DAYS I'VE ALMOST FALLEN OVER THOSE LETTUCES! AND THE PINEAPPLE STINKS!' Amy bellowed at the top of her lungs.

'THEY'RE EXPERIMENTS! THEY'RE THERE FOR A SCIENTIFIC REASON!' Sherlock bickered back in the same tone.

'AND WHAT REASON'S THAT, THEN? A REACTION EXPERIMENT? "SEE HOW PEOPLE REACT WHEN THEY FALL ON THEIR FACES AFTER TRIPPING OVER A ROTTEN LETTUCE"?'

'What's going on?' Mrs Hudson asked John and Eleanor.

'They've been like this for half an hour. Bickering about the cleanliness if this flat,' John provided the answer, trying desperately to be heard over the racket of Sherlock and Amy.

'It's bugged her since Monday,' Eleanor added, as it was now Saturday. 'He's right, though. She does have a touch of OCD. Keeps a very clean house,'

'Well, then, would she be interested in being the housekeeper of this flat? Only because Sherlock keeps treating me like one, and in my old age...' Mrs Hudson trailed off.

'I think that would be a wonderful idea, Mrs Hudson,' John said happily.

'Hear that, dear? You can be the housekeeper here. How does that sound?' Mrs Hudson asked Amy.

Amy diverted her attention from the raging Sherlock before her and looked at Mrs Hudson. 'That sounds like a splendid idea,'

'But-' Sherlock protested, but he was interrupted.

'Wonderful. Then it's settled. Amy can start on the flat whenever she likes,' The dear old landlady said cheerfully.

Sherlock stood dumbfounded in the centre if the living room as people drained from the flat, leaving only John and himself. It was hard for him to grasp what just happened.

John walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. 'You should've stopped when I'd told you to,'

'Yes. Yes I really should have.' Sherlock murmured, and sank into his sofa.

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Short but necessary!


	5. Chapter 5

Intellect.

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FIVE.

'Feet,' Amy commanded.

Sherlock lifted his feet without looking up from his new book.

'I don't understand it. Why couldn't he kill the baby? If he really was the best wizard how could he not kill a defenceless child?'

'Love,' Amy interjected, picking up empty Chinese food containers from the floor.

'What?'

'He couldn't kill Harry because of Harry's mother's love for him, so when Harry's mother cast himself between Voldemort and Harry, she set a sort of barrier between them. A barrier that Voldemort couldn't break, 'cause he could never comprehend the power of love. Understand it now?'

'Well that's a load of rubbish!'

'Well, it's a fictional book,'

'Not that. The love thing. Love is a chemical reaction. Endorphins released; causes a powerful feeling. Load of rubbish the whole "love" thing,'

'Well, you're entitled to your opinion,' Amy mumbled from behind the sofa.

'Yes, and my opinion is right,'

'You may think so, but many people believe in love. What's this?' She held something furry.

'A sock. You're one if those people,' he said, still reading.

Amy didn't reply, instead she cleaned up the rest of the grotesque things in the living room in silence and headed to the kitchen.

Sherlock threw the book to his desk, knocking other books and loose pages onto the floor. He cursed under his breath and looked to the kitchen. Amy was working away, a black bin bag in her hand as she swept the rubbish from the table an counter tops into it.

Sherlock counted himself lucky she hadn't noticed- the last time he had messed up a room after she'd cleaned it, she tore straight through him.

Jumping quietly from his seat on the sofa he grabbed the mess and stacked it tidily on his desk again.

He propped himself back down onto the sofa, glancing at the kitchen. Something wasn't right. The kitchen looked too... Bare.

Realisation struck Sherlock faster than lightning to a tree. All his experiments- gone.

'Amy, what have you done?' Sherlock shouted angrily.

Amy jumped and whipped around to face the angry man before her. 'I, I tidied up. It's my job, isn't it?'

'You've "tidied up" my experiments! Weeks of research thrown into bin bags!'

'They just looked like rubbish to me! Mouldy banana skins, burnt pages in the fridge!' Amy cried in defence.

'You should have consulted me before touching ANYTHING! Stupid girl! Stupid, thoughtless girl!' Sherlock raised his fist-clenched hands above his head and brought them crashing down onto the kitchen table, making a plate clatter.

Amy winced at the noise, she thought she'd be the next object to be hit.

'Do you understand how long it took me to gather everything? MONTHS!' Sherlock hit the table again in frustration. Another clatter another wince.

'All my notes, effort, time- WASTED!' Sherlock grabbed the plate from the table and flung it at the wall.

Amy jumped and winced, letting a small sob out of her.

Upon hearing the noise in the kitchen of 221b, both Eleanor and John scramble from their hideouts- John from his bedroom, Eleanor from her own kitchen.

'Sherlock? Sherlock, what's going on?' John tried.

'Experiments are gone because of this incredibly thick girl!' Sherlock shouted in answer as Eleanor reached the room.

'I didn't mean to, no-one told me what they were, I just assumed they were rubbish,' Amy managed, though her mouth was thick and her cheeks grew sodden with tears. She was shaking.

'Look, Sherlock, she didn't know, you're scaring her- look,' Eleanor spoke cautiously.

'Those experiments were the only thing keeping me from constant boredom!'

'Yes, but you can always start new ones- those were getting outrageously out of hand!' John reasoned.

Sherlock stopped, staring from John, to Eleanor, to Amy. He tipped the kitchen table over and stormed out of the house without his coat.

John and Eleanor both rushed over to Amy and engulfed her in a warm hug. She broke down, for the third time since stepping foot inside the building, and buried her head between their shoulders, sobbing quietly, her breath hitching a few times.

She was glad she had friends like Eleanor and John; they made her feel safe.

As soon as Sherlock turned off the corner of Baker Street, it let down with a vengeance. He was soaked to the bone within minutes.

What was it with the rain these days? It was turning out to be the most miserable summer ever. And Sherlock was so bored he was about to do the last thing he could think of.

Feeling desperate, he hailed a taxi and was brought to DI Lestrade's personal home.

No one was home- the house showed no signs of use at that moment in time.

Sherlock swore under his breath; it was a sign. He shouldn't go looking for cases.

Deciding to walk back to 221b in the pouring rain was Sherlock's own therapy- he decided he'd better brace himself for what was awaiting him back at 221b. An angry John.

John paced the living room, glancing at the clock, the TV, out the window, anything to try and subdue his anger and worry about Sherlock.

He heard the front door click open and shut, and sat quickly down in the armchair, trying to look completely angry.

Sherlock staggered in whistling a made up tune.

'Where have you been? You're soaked!' John exclaimed, jumping from his seat.

'Oh, I went out. Lestrade wasn't home so I went to a pub. They have nice beer- I've not had nice beer in a while,' Sherlock slurred.

'Sounds like you've had more than one nice beer,'

'About six, maybe seven,' Sherlock picked up the skull on the mantelpiece and dropped it on his foot. 'Ouch!'

'Oh, I can't be hacked with this. I'm going to bed, Sherlock,' John grumbled and stalked off to his bed.

'Like a charm.' Sherlock, now completely sober, said as he sank into his armchair.


	6. Chapter 6

Intellect.

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SIX.

'ATCHOO!'

'God, Sherlock. D'you have to be so loud?' John complained, running a hand over his sandy coloured hair.

'I cannot help the volume at which I sneeze, John. You're a doctor, what's wrong with me?' Sherlock asked his flatmate hurriedly.

'I can't tell, Sherlock. You've only sneezed twice,'

'Yes, but I never sneeze. Never!'

'Look, just sit down. Stop pacing the room. Eleanor will be here soon; we want to talk to you about Amy,'

'Oh for...'

It had been two days since the Experiment Incident, and neither Amy nor Sherlock had looked at each other, let alone spoken.

Amy had not set foot in flat 221b, and thus- the flat had reverted to it's old ways. Dusty; dirty; books thrown everywhere.

Not that Sherlock minded. He thought of it as organised chaos, and he liked it that way.

A knock on the door told them Eleanor had arrived. John courteously opened the door for her.

'Morning- Oh! What is that stench?' She greeted as she stepped into the flat, wrinkling her nose in disgust. 'Did something die in here?'

'Yes, Sherlock's dignity. We've been looking for it for days, but it must have crawled away and died,' John half-joked. 'No, actually, it's a new "experiment" of his,'

'Of what?'

'There's an arm in the microwave with a rather furry, mouldy sock that I suspect hasn't been washed since it was bought,'

'That's horrible,'

'Yes, and I am still in the room, thank-you!' Sherlock interrupted, looking like an annoyed five-year-old.

'Alright, don't get your prissy little knickers in a twist!' Eleanor teased.

'Shut up,' Sherlock bit back, falling down into his chair with a loud sneeze. 'John, it's not normal!' he whined.

John sighed. 'You really are in child mode today, aren't you?'

'Rhetorical question. I don't have to answer it,' Sherlock replied smugly.

'Okay, can we get to the matter at hand please?' Eleanor input.

'Ah, yes. Amy,' John said.

'She doesn't feel safe anymore, like you're going to attack her if she steps out of the flat. Y'know, to avenge your experiments,' Eleanor told Sherlock. 'Look, I have the greatest sympathy for your experiments, I really do, I know what it's like to have them ruined, but you don't have to react in the way that you did if something goes wrong!'

'Nothing went wrong- the idiot girl threw them away!'

'Maybe if you had better care of them, or told Amy what they were, then she wouldn't have touched them. It's really your fault,' Eleanor retorted.

'Sherlock, you should apologise. And mean it,' John said sternly.

'Why should I apologise? She was the one doing wrong! And I'm sick of repeating that!' Sherlock said, rubbing his forehead as he felt an oncoming headache arise.

He sneezed once again and groaned, placing his head between his hands.

'Just go and apologise now. Then you can go back to your old hollow self,'

Sherlock took out his phone and had started to type when Eleanor placed her hand over the screen. 'In person,'

Sherlock tutted, strutting out of the room and down the stairs, sneezing once or twice and fighting the urge to cough excessively.

He knocked on the door of number 221a and waited.

Amy heard the knock and ran from her bedroom to the door, thinking that Eleanor had locked herself out, (well, it wouldn't be the first time).

She opened the door, and, seeing who was just across the threshold, promptly went to close it again. Only, she had failed in doing so, as Sherlock had stuck his foot in the way.

'What do you want?' Amy asked quietly, looking at her feet as if they were the most interesting feet in the world.

Sherlock took out his phone.

I'm saying Sorry.

SH

Amy's left pocket bleeped and she took out her newly bought Blackberry. She read Sherlock's message.

'How did you get my number? I only got this today!'

John leaves his mobile lying around. Am I forgiven?

SH

'I- I don't know. Why should I forgive you?'

Because I am sorry. I don't normally act like that, but with the case shortage I'm a short fuse.

SH

'And how do I know I can trust you not to revert to that state again,'

You don't, but know this- I'd never hit you. I've never hit a female in my life, my mummy raised me better than that.

SH

'Right... I'll give you one last cha-' she read the message again, 'Did you just type "Mummy"?'

Sherlock groaned in what was either embarrassment or annoyance.

'Sherlock? A "mummy's boy"?' Amy singsonged.

'Oh, shut up,' Sherlock said, not playfully, yet not as harsh as the words normally are when they exit his mouth.

'Speaking now, are we?'

Sherlock looked to a wall to the floor and back to Amy.

'I suppose,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Then why send the texts?' she asked, confused.

'I'm not good with apologies.' Sherlock replied with a ferocious sneeze and cough attached on the end. 'And that was one of the reasons too...'

He sneezed again.

'You ought to get that seen to,'

'John won't listen to me. So are you coming to be our housekeeper again?' Sherlock asked, trying to be quick and avoid another awkward apology.

'Yes. Fine, I'll be up when I have this flat sorted,' Amy said, smiling meekly.

She closed the door an Sherlock bounced up the stairs almost quietly; a few coughs here and there.

'It stinks in here Sherlock,' Amy muttered, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she crossed the doorway.

'Oh really? I hadn't noticed,' he replied in his usual sarcastic tone, which was dubbed down from a blocked nose. He sniffed and coughed.

Sherlock's complexion was far paler than it's usual vampiric state, (and that was saying something).

'By God, Sherlock. You look awful! Why isn't John here to look after you? Or even Eleanor?'

'They both have to work shifts or something,' Was what Sherlock had really meant, but what had come out of his mouth was, 'They both hab to work shiftbs or somebthink,' with a loud sneeze crashing out afterwards.

Amy set her hand out and placed it atop of Sherlock's head. His temperature was sky high.

'I've never seen anyone so sick in all my life, how did this happen?'

'My theory is dabt it habbned two days ago whenb I wenbt oubtside and it pissed downb. I donb't understanbd why though. I've neber been sick before,' Sherlock said, with great difficulty, as he hated the way the blocked nose affected his speech. He sniffed, hard, and broke into a coughing fit, finally settling to blow his nose into a tissue.

Amy tried her best to ignore the noise and continue on, talking to Sherlock as she cleaned. 'What? Never been sick? I find that very hard to believe,'

'Well, I was sick onbce, but I didnb't like it bery munch, so I just stobbed being sick,' he replied simply.

'If we all had the powers the great Sherlock Holmes possessed,' Amy joked.

Sherlock half-laughed, half coughed.

'Anything I can get you?' she asked politely.

'A cup of tea would be nice...' he hinted.

'Y'know, there's a word that fits in nicely with that sentence, Sherlock,' Amy mocked, already getting up to make him his tea.

'Sorry, I donb't hab any blood in my heabd right now,' he mumbled back, turning to his side. He sighed in comfort as his little couch soothed him to near sleep.

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A/N

Hey all! Just want to point out that the next chapter will be continuing on from this scene, and if it weren't late at night while I'm writing this then it would be an extra, extra long chapter instead. I would also like to point out that Eleanor and John will be more involved in the story! And, on another note, I realise Sherlock's illness is quite drastic, and the way he speaks towards the end of the chapter is not a mistake. It's all spelt phonetically (the way it sounds when you say it. At least, I think that's the word anyway) like someone who's truly sick with a blocked nose. Sorry if there's any grammar mistakes in there- I just finished reading the Sherlock 'crack fiction' Flowers In A Box, and I think it may have rotted away the Grammar Nazi side of my brain


	7. Chapter 7

Intellect.

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SEVEN.

'No blood in your head? I think I'd rather not know,' Amy joked.

'Oh, Ha-hah. Canb't you finbd a cure for this?' Sherlock asked desperately, adding a sneeze to the end of that sentence.

'Unfortunately, Sherlock, no. But I'm sure if you stop fussing you'll be fine,'

Amy took Sherlock's mug and washed it while the kettle boiled.

'Is thabt my mug?'

Amy nodded.

'Good. I wonb't drink my tea out of any othber mug,' he says huffily.

'Oh, for gods sakes, Sherlock, blow your bloody nose!' Amy says, frustrated, and throws him a box of tissues.

Sherlock does so, tossing the used tissue in the bin after. Now, with his nose clearer, he could speak properly. 'Much better.'

'I'll say,'

There was a silence, before Sherlock burst into his big reel.

'So, you work in a florists. You take bouts of bulimia and anorexia, one of which you're recovering from now; I have to say, they're both terrible conditions. You're an amateur artist on the side of everything. You're a domestic woman with every good intention, yet you have some evil in you somewhere- it's only natural, we all do. And yet there's something else I can't figure out about you. Maybe it's just because I can't think properly, my deductions aren't quite up to standard. God, I've gone amateur again. Mycroft'll love this,'

'H-how did you-'

'The science of deduction. Have the strangest feeling I've told you before. However, that was both a pitiable and amateur deduction of you and you must accept my apology. I'll do a better one when I'm well again. Now, where's my tea?'

Amy looked in the fridge. 'There's no milk. Why is there never any milk?'

'Amy-' Sherlock's tone was a mixture if both desperate for attention and fear, like a child scared of a clown at a circus.

'Seriously, milk is the only thing ever bought in this flat, why is there never any in?'

'Amy-'

'I'm not giving you black coffee, no matter how much you like it, you need rest not caffeine. Maybe I have some hot chocolate downstairs-'

'AMY!' that caught her attention, and brought it to the very ill Sherlock, who had thrown up all over himself, 'I appear to have vomited,'

Amy's eyes grew wide. He'd thrown up all over himself, the majority of the sofa and part of the floor. 'Are you able to move?'

Sherlock nodded.

'Good, g-go and, ah, go and change. I'll, um, I'll go and get something to clear this mess up.'

Again, Sherlock nodded, feebly stood from his position on the now unclean sofa, and slowly walked to his room in a dazed- shocked, almost -manner.

When Amy came back with the necessary cleaning supplies, she didn't even gag at the smell. She had gotten used to the smell of, unbeknown to her, Sherlock's new experiment.

Sherlock was sitting on the armchair with his knees under his chin and arms wrapped around his legs. He looked like a scared child.

'Sherlock? Have you been sick again since I left?'

'Once. In the kitchen sink. I cleaned it up a little,' he replied in a small, yet still deep voice.

'Alright, I'll go clean that up. No tea for you. Or coffee, or hot chocolate. Flat, cool liquids only. Like water or flat coca-cola,'

'Flat? As in no fizz?'

'Yes. If the drinks were fizzy, it would upset your stomach again. You and I both know we don't want that to happen again,' Amy said from the kitchen as she scrubbed at the sink. She looked to Sherlock, who still had the "frightened small boy" air about him. 'Look, you need to rest. Go to your bed and lie in it. You'll sleep and maybe feel better in the morning. Okay?' When Sherlock nodded Amy smiled comfortingly. 'I'll bring in a glass if water for you in a minute, tuck you in maybe.'

Sherlock dawdled off to his room quietly. When Amy heard the faint click of his door closing she sighed deeply.

Her day was not going to plan.

She ran the cold tap for a while, to let the water get freezing cold, scooped up the liquid in her hands and splashed it on her face. Thank God she wasn't wearing make-up today. When she had dabbed her face dry with the towel, she grabbed a glass and filled it with water, making her way to Sherlock's bedroom.

Amy knocked the door and waited. Hearing no reply she entered to see a topless Sherlock climbing into bed. She gasped, shutting her eyes in habit (it was something she did when an image she shouldn't have seen had made itself apparent).

'I'm decent, you know.'

"I'll say," thought Amy.

'Open your eyes,' Amy did as she was told and opened one sceptically. Finding there was nothing wrong with the image she now saw, Sherlock tucked up in bed with his head on a pillow and eyes closed, she opened her's fully and moved to set the glass of water on his bedside table.

When Amy made to leave, Sherlock thanked her and asked for a bucket. He was, as he said, "Not throwing up in the toilet bowl like a savage. Besides, there was a human appendix in the cistern".

This was just the first of many days of strangeness that Amy would encounter, little known to her.

But as days go, this was possibly the strangest of her life so far.

And that was saying something.

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	8. Chapter 8Lil' bit of a drabble :D

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EIGHT.

It had been hours before Amy decided to clean the mess that Sherlock had unintentionally made, and by the time she was finished, Sherlock was busy moaning about boredom. He had not yet returned to his usual state of mind, and he was still unable to look after himself effectively. Fortunately, John had arrived back from his shifts at the surgery soon after Amy had exited the flat of 221B, so he was there to care for Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at John as he entered the flat.

Sherlock muttered partly to himself, and partly to John in the small hope that there might be something which could relieve him from this utter hellish state of boredom he was currently in. Sherlock sat up suddenly. John was startled, and watched him warily.

"John-" Sherlock started to say, before he was interrupted by John with just one simple word.

"Rest."

"But-" Sherlock tried again.

"Come now, Sherlock, only a fool argues with his doctor." John told him smugly.

"I'm utterly bored. There is nothing for me to do, at all. I am stuck here in this flat like a jaguar in a cage! I don't even have the skull to talk to! I must insist, I need to get out." Sherlock ran his slender hands frantically through his black curly mop of hair.

John sighed at his flat mate. "Stop being so melodramatic, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that you can't leave this flat. Your body is still getting used to the idea of illness. Quite frankly, I'm completely astounded that you have never been ill before. I find it impossible to believe."

Sherlock groaned. "I can feel all logical thoughts in my brain rotting away. My mind rebels at stagnation. I abhor the dull routine of existence."

"Doctor's orders. Rest." John said sternly.

"Oh, why did I refuse that case last week? I'd take even the simplest of them now. Nothing could be worse than this."

"Try traffic on a Monday morning." John laughed.

Sherlock looked John in the eye. "I need to get fresh air from the streets of London, John. I must leave this flat."

"I highly doubt that the London air would do you any good." John mused, returning Sherlock's gaze. "What if we sent you to be with your brother in the countryside? It is around Christmas time."

Sherlock stared at John, a flicker of doubt seeped into his mind as he realised that John wasn't joking. "I believe it is within my rights to decline that offer I assume Mycroft made, and accept it as a mere joke instead."

John chuckled. "He'll be disappointed. He sends you his regards and wishes to send you a slice of Victoria sponge cake. He seems to think that I am not feeding you enough." "I don't want nor need the cake." Sherlock retorted sharply.

"Be a good patient, Sherlock, for my sake at least." John studied Sherlock. "I have to say that it does appear as if you're getting better."

Sherlock smiled good naturedly at John.

"Even so, you should stay put for two more weeks, just to be in the safe side."

"TWO WEEKS?" Sherlock burst out in horror, his expression such that it caused peals of laughter to erupt from his flat mate. "But that's ludicrous! I simply can't stay here for that long a period of time."

John gasped for breath. "I'm only joking, Sherlock!"

Sherlock settled back onto the nest of pillows with a shiver. "Oh, good."

John wrapped a blanket around Sherlock and made him a cup of tea, which he poured into a plain black and white striped mug. And so ended another day at 221B Baker Street.

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A/N: This impressive and amazingly written chapter was created by my marvelous best friend, RhiaWelsh


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